Dragon In Winterfell
by ADAustin
Summary: Daenerys sails for White Harbor and approaches Winterfell with Jon Snow. Season 7 spoilers. Jonerys. [JonXDaenerys]
1. Hope Sets Sail

The light of the sky was a white that reminded him of home, which would be comforting had he not been in a ship hours North of King's Landing. Slate gray skies should not reach this far south; the sun loomed swollen and dreary on the horizon, beckoning night to relieve its duties.

But in the light there was also hope, albeit founded on a foundation as narrow as a raven's leg.

And hope he did, for the impossible had happened: Cersei Lannister had agreed to aid the cause.

Try as he might, he could not help but find himself thinking of the future now that he knew there might be one. He wanted simple things from this world and this was one of the few things he ever wanted for himself: Jon Snow saw himself at Daenerys Targaryen's side in all future scenarios. The wanting opened so much within him that it had become a sinkhole in his stomach, swallowing all other feelings and thoughts.

"I keep wondering, how many more days until there are no more days?" Jon's voice sounded weary even to his own ears. Tyrion, Hand of the Queen, and his family's former enemy, tilted his chin in contemplation. "How long will this winter last? How can I protect—my people?"

"My people?" Tyrion scoffed. He raised a brow, his eyes twinkling wickedly. "Is our queen the _people_ you speak of?"

Jon said nothing, choosing instead to take note of the appearance of the first star in the sky. The temperature steadily dropped as the sun melted onto the canvas of the sea.

He would say nothing but he found his thoughts often returned with preoccupation to the queen.

In the dwarf's broad hands was a wineskin. He took a long swill of it and held out the drink to the King of the North. Jon declined.

"I once knew a man born entirely incapable of smiling." Tyrion Lannister was a man with an ability to appear out of thin air with a bottle of wine and a story that was either his own passed off as a sage's or one of a sage's he passed off as his own. "Some rare affliction or another, his father quoted the Maesters as having told him, affecting the nerves.

"He was a son of a lord of some small house hoping to rise above its circumstances by marrying into the wealthiest family in the seven kingdoms. I don't recall why my father even entertained the notion." The imp smiled his crooked tooth smile, a wistful glint in his eye. Jon remained silent. "Willas was the suitor's name.

"Cersei and her friends, of course, used to tease him so. 'But Willas, you have such a handsome face.' 'Come laugh with us, Willas.' But he didn't know it at the time and he could not laugh. He merely thought these were the whims of young women taking a liking to him. She had even convinced our father that she was interested in her suitor just to keep him around for sport. It lasted weeks, maybe even a month or two."

"What happened to him?" Jon Snow asked. He knew that Cersei had never married a Lord Willas. He was not one for his histories of the southern kingdoms but this was a knowledge all of Westeros had known. The great Rebellion of Robert Baratheon was one well known in Winterfell.

"Willas and I had become friends, you see," Tyrion examined the beds of his nails rather intently, "because he was a scholarly young man and well read. His family was known for academia rather than militia. As poor a lordling he was, Willas was the rarest breed of man; he was generous."

Tyrion smiled at some memory, the soft kind of smile that hinted at a sadness. He took a drink and settled the wineskin in his belt before he gathered his hands behind his back, returned to watching the waves crash into one another ceaselessly. "Seeing my great passion for the Targaryens and their dragons, he gave me one of the rarest editions of House Targaryen collection of stories from Aegon, his sisters, and their dragons. There were only twenty known copies in all of the known world remaining. Ten at the Citadel.

"Eventually, as she is wont to do, Cersei grew bored of her little games with the young man. Especially when she had found out that he had become her imp brother's friend and had given me a gift. 'I will marry you,' Cersei said to him one day. 'If you can do one thing.'

"Eager as he was to please his father as we are all prone to do at some point in our lives, Willas said excitedly, 'Yes, anything. Whatever you name, I shall try to give you, My Lady.'"

Tyrion's eyes glazed in sadness as he stared at steel blue sea, unseeing and unblinking. The smile had faded from his lips completely. He remained untouched by the sounds of Rhaegal and Drogon swirling through the dusk air, shrieking their might into the heavens.

The Hand of the Queen's dark blond hair fluttered against his forehead in the sea breeze, the only piece of him moving for some time. Small, quiet snowflakes dusted his cheeks and kissed his eyelashes before he blinked.

"'All I ask,' my dear sweet sister said to our Willas, 'is that you smile at me now. Just once. And then I will tell my father I wish to join our houses.' It felt like an eternity of watching him staring at her, trying so hard to change the thing he was born to be, before she began laughing in his face when the sweat began to bead on his brow."

Tyrion scratched at the scar on his nose before continuing. "When my only childhood friend left, shattered, she spread word Willas was a pillow biter and had fallen in love with me, her halfling brother, and showered me with gifts. Father was furious and burned the rare book Willas had given me. Cersei told me I would never know a day of joy so long as she walked upon the face of the world, for I had killed our mother and was a blight upon my family.

"I have two points here. One: sometimes I wonder if you suffer the same nerve malfunction as Willas. You could have a contest with Jorah Mormont."

Jon did curl his upper lip in a ghost of a smile, the black of his beard peppered with red in the sunset's palette. He often found himself not quite sure what to make of the smallest Lannister, whether they were friends or enemies or something in between. Perhaps his only enemy was the man that got between him and nearest open bottle.

"And two," Tyrion said, his voice deadening. This was the tone of Tyrion the Advisor. "Don't ever trust Cersei. She will play games with you until she grows bored and then she will shatter you and anyone that's ever loved you… I have never seen her so vulnerable in the moment she offered something for only an oath in return and you couldn't give that to her. Why? Why couldn't you lie?"

Tyrion's hand went to his belt, toying with the wineskin's cork and possibly the idea of drinking more. Gods, how the man didn't drink himself to an early grave by now, or where he even put all the liquid, Jon had no idea.

Jon could have offered Tyrion the words of Aemon Targaryen, the words that had given the shape to the conversation he had had with Daenerys in the Dragon Pit. _Wind and words_. He could have told him of how he bent the knee to the Targaryen in this very ship on a different journey. _My Queen._ The words Jon Snow had spoken hung heavily between Daenerys and himself, as real and vivid as a tapestry painting the things between them that had happened and the things yet to come and the other things, the unspoken ones; they spanned infinitely within his chest, a bright star flaring to life in the barren night sky.

"I chose her," Jon said simply. He felt in that moment they were the truest words that could have escaped from his heart. "I will have no Queen but her."

"And when she will not bear you an heir? Will you have her then?"

The King did what he did best and glowered down at the queen's Hand. His dark eyes gleamed against the darkening sky. "She is the only one. I don't care about any of that. I'm just a bastard wearing a fancy cloak and a title that I had no part of standing on a damned ship trying not to be scared."

Rhaegal was a streak of emerald in the sky as his great leathery wings folded. He came at the sea blurringly fast, talons on his feet outstretched. Before Jon could blink, he had unfurled his wings and caught a pocket of air and shot once more into the sky clutching a small whale colored black and white.

"And here we are," the dwarf said and raised the wineskin in a salute, the other of his hands on his cock, pissing between two rails off the bow, "two bastards in the presence of legends, pissing into the wind just to see which way it will blow. We can only hope Cersei will stay true to her word even if only to protect her legacy."

Jon Snow smiled kindly at the obviously drunken Tyrion. His cape swirled as he made to leave the deck, needing to feel his feet moving beneath him instead of standing still. If he were a ship, he would be in the midst of a maelstrom, unable to anchor, swaying to and fro.

"It is obvious to everyone but you, I think," the Lannister said over several Dothraki passing on their shift change, speaking in their guttural tongue. Jon watched them pass before glancing back at the fellow bastard, tucking his pecker back into his breeches. "You are truly in love with her, Jon Snow. Do you want my advice?"

Without waiting for an answer, Tyrion continued, "Wait until the Night King has been defeated. You risk her every time you rush into danger because she will do anything to keep you safe. Let her conquer the kingdoms before you conquer her heart. You both need to be clearhea-"

A vile spout of vomit over the same rail he had just pissed between cut off the rest of the Lannister's words.

 _She will do anything to keep you safe._

The bastard king's mind withdrew to a different day. Her outstretched hand reaching for him, so pale and small on the back of the black dragon. How she had looked like he had always imagined the beauties of legends, beyond his wildest imaginings. Tyrion was right, after all. She had risked everything and lost much protecting him.

Against their dark skin and hair, the queen Daenerys emerged from below deck behind the Dothraki, hers was a shock of silver hair and cream skin. She nodded to one of her blood riders and stood in place, as the last light faded from the sky. _She will do anything._

Ser Jorah Mormont loomed behind her in his dark garb and made a point to narrow his eyes at Jon before moving to Tyrion's side. Jon noticed how she watched the redeemed knight, always with a hint of caution but mostly admiration. But it wasn't Jorah she had reached for first on the back of Drogon North of the Wall.

The Dothraki chuckled as the knight knelt over and slapped the dwarf's back. They said something that sounded like an insult to the heavens and nodded their heads in respect to their queen before assuming their various positions.

Danaerys locked eyes with Jon and her expression immediately softened. He didn't know what to do with that, or the unspoken questions floating inside the stream of his mind, but he could look at her and drink in the vision of her. His pulse quickened and he could feel his shaky breath escape between his lips.

The way she looked at him… the way her gaze trailed and inched and pulled the blood from his veins and put fire in its stead…

Something about Daenerys's face _deepened_ or intensified, rather. His eyes dropped to her mouth long enough to see her pink tongue dart out and moisten her ample lips. He could imagine the taste of her mouth, stealing her breath with his lips. Her pupils dilated, the black swallowing the sea green, and he could feel that well in himself opening wider and wider. She would consume him whole like fire and he would let her; and he'd do it again and again.

Gods, he needed to walk.

Fuck Tyrion Lannister and his knowing things.

* * *

 ** _I know I've made this a bit confusing by making these prequel uploaded after you've already read the two chapters after this one. But I have to add in the epic boat scene. There will be a couple more chapters sandwiched and then I will continue the journey at Winterfell once I've completed this arc, rather than uploading an entirely new story._**

 ** _Thank you for reading and thanks for understanding._**


	2. The Dragon Approaches

Something about Daenerys standing, framed by the walls his childhood home, made his heart pound in his chest and filled his veins with a slippery, warm feeling he couldn't quite name. Almost like having just a pinch too much sour ale.

Before, he had been caught off-guard by her ethereal beauty and would stare at her, flummoxed by her very existence, when she wasn't looking. And now he sought her gaze because in them he felt understood, he felt challenged, he felt comfort and familiarity, but most of all, he felt as if he had found his match.

He was not an artist nor a diplomat and therefore did not notice minute details about others. He trusted his instincts for that. But with her… He noticed. He noticed the tendril of her hair that had escaped her intricate braids and dusted the tip of her shoulder, the cerulean of her eyes, the lushness of her slightly parted lips, the creamy color of her skin as it reddened, the color of her fine clothes: silver, black, and white with a contrasting red stitching strewn meticulously throughout.

Her clothing was not the usual militaristic look she had donned as of late and defined more of her more feminine features and it left his hands aching to touch them, press his face into them, remove them. Her white lambskin glove looked stark against his arm as she held it, her other delicate fingers outstretched and lost in a mass of white fur.

"Jon Snow," she said breathily. When she said his name like this, he felt as if he truly did know nothing. "Is this… Ghost?"

This was her first time seeing Ghost and a direwolf all at once. The queen of dragons' breath had hitched when Ghost had appeared silently from the trees and she hadn't let it out until he had slid under her hand and accepted her touch. Jon had been silent the entire time and let out a shaky sigh when the direwolf had drawn closer.

As they had traveled, Jon had concerned himself with thoughts of the northern Lords meeting Daenerys and thinking of how he might convince them that he was not a turncloak. Jon had not given much thought to the meeting of the mother of dragons and his direwolf until they had been halfway to Winterfell, when he found himself wanting Daenerys to not only like Ghost, but to love him as much as he did. And he wanted the same for Ghost, two pieces of his life fitting together perfectly.

"Yes," Jon said as she detached herself from his arm and lowered herself to Ghost's level. Their eyes had never left one another since his quiet approach.

"I am glad," Daenerys spoke to the wolf, words heavy, "to have met you."

The direwolf's mouth opened, revealing long teeth, and his tongue quickly darted under Daenerys's chin. Jon's heart thumped unevenly.

Red eyes, ever intelligent, lifted to Jon as the wolf flicked one ear towards the sound of dragons keening overhead. Daenerys ran her hand along the direwolf's neck and watched Jon stroke Ghost between his large ears.

"Thank you, Boy," Jon told Ghost and was surprised at the huskiness of his voice. "You kept the girls safe while I was gone."

The queen's hand withdrew and she stood upright. Her voice was careful. "The girls?"

"Ay," Jon said and he moved to Daenerys's side. Ghost padded along beside them as they walked toward the weyrwood. "My sisters: Arya and Sansa. You did not meet them in the Dragon Pit because Sansa had sent Brienne of Tarth in her stead. And I hadn't known Arya was going to return, I had thought her dead."

"You love them." It was not a question. "I think especially Arya. Your voice is different when you speak of her. Why have you not run to them already?"

Jon was silent, contemplative, enjoying the brief moment of peace amidst the chaos. Their traveling companions would not wait for them much longer. 'We will pay our respects to the Old Gods before entering Winterfell, as Father would have it,' he had told Tyrion and Davos. Missandei had shared a look with her queen before finding busywork to keep her where she was.

Every moment felt splintered between the desire to remain with her and the desire to rip off the bandages and let most of the wounded Lords get on with their floundering.

"The last time Sansa had been at the mercy of the Lannisters, it did not go over well. Arya has no love for them either. I am not sure how they will react knowing your Hand is a Lannister."

 _I am not sure how any of them will react to anything,_ the King of the North admitted internally. _So much has changed and the North is not known for bowing to change._

Busy as he was speaking to Daenerys, Ghost bumped into his leg to stop their tracks. His nose pointed toward an oddly articulated figure sitting in front of the Weyrwood, facing away from the two. Ravens chattered and cawed in multitudes and a white raven balanced beside the figure.

Jon gripped Longclaw and placed himself in front of his queen.

As they drew closer, Jon stiffened. The hair was shorter, the figure longer than the last he had seen him, but there was no mistaking the deep chestnut color of hair nor the fact that the young man sat upon a contraption made for one unable to use his legs.

"Bran?"

"It's all right," a voice not unlike Eddard Stark's emitted from the figure. "I have been looking forward to meeting her. Daenerys Stormborn, of Rhaella and Aerys. We have much to discuss."


	3. A Stoked Fire Tempered

Bran's present state of mind was that of a fish caught by hand: slippery and elusive.

He had yet to master the intricacies of travelling through the eyes of time, the thin line blurring between _then_ , _now_ , and _yet to be_. The past was much easier to deal with as these things had already been established. Looking forward required intense focus, an introspection that he could not afford while entertaining the present.

So it was, as he looked into Daenerys Stormborn's face, he saw her features shift over and over, a wheel. _I want to break the wheel_. No, this was slipping into _before_.

Summer howled nearby. Shaggydog accompanied him. No, not the wolves. The memory of them. Only Ghost stood there and he did not howl.

The Three-Eyed Raven almost felt surprised there were others there in the godswood with him.

To ground himself, he said, "So many Targaryens. All bringing magic and darkness and fire. For a purpose…" His arm throbbed where the Night King had marked him. His mind flooded for a moment, reeling. "Ice and fire. You bring great sadness with you but…" He looked from Daenerys's stricken face to Jon. "…also great love."

The weyrwood's eyes drew out an essence, peering within, deeper into the darkness. Ice cracking, the screams, the recurring circle, a boat, warmth erupting to fire.

To the sky, the dragons circling overhead screeched but to Bran there was only a song of sorrow and fury and cautious hope they spun between them. Magical beings that they were, they kept the encroaching darkness at bay, kept him from slipping further.

The powerful magic swirling between the three in the eyes of the godswood and the Targaryen girl and, with his resurrection, Jon Snow was almost too much to be near. Slipping, slipping, slipping.

"Your dragons bring pain. Even now, they speak of their sadness for their fallen sibling." He could still hear the dragons' crying out for their brother and the guttural keening Viserion made before crashing into ice. The visions blurred at the edges there, so close to the Night King. "It was over quickly for Viserion, he did not suffer much."

He could not offer the Targaryen queen much comfort beyond his words. And he knew, from his visions, of a rasped voice turning to screams and smoke had once turned her sour to magic.

"How could you kn—" Daenerys began.

"Unlike the witch that spoke to you of suns and moons and seas and returns, I am the Three-Eyed Raven. I know many things," Bran said.

Jon's face conveyed that which his words would not: the Bran he had known was long gone. The greenseer settled on the intensity of Daenerys's ice blue eyes, almost violet in this light.

"Such as your wish to break the wheel. The wheel that was crafted and spun first by Aegon the Conquerer. Wearing your anger, your armies, and your dragons as armor to attain the throne. But who are you without all these, Khaleesi?"

The sound of metal being loosed from its scabbard was oddly out of place and Bran almost believed he was lost in a vision when he felt the cold bite of metal at his neck. But then, he had known this would happen too.

Jon withdrew his bastard sword in a flash, still angled in front of Daenerys. Ghost bared his teeth beside him.

"Which of the people have been whispering the khaleesi's secrets, Boy?" a deep voice demanded behind him quietly.

If Bran were not the Three-Eyed Raven, he might have been scared. The man's hand gripping his shoulder was as strong as a bear, his grip on the knife sure.

"Jorah, don't—"

"That's my brother's throat your knife is against, Mormont. Let him go."

"It's all right. He won't hurt me," Bran said with surety.

It was often difficult to establish the truth and reality of now with non-seers. None of it mattered and yet everything mattered all at once. The echoes of their voices were doubled this close to the tree.

"I am a kind of greenseer, Ser Jorah. Your servant, Mellara, used to tell you tales of the greenseers and the eyes of the forest and men who walk in the skin of bears. I am all of these things.

"Is it as hard to believe as your cured greyscale?"

* * *

The knight took a sharp breath in and withdrew his knife from Bran's throat. He blanched, visibly shaken and stumbled against the pale tree. The leaves shuddered. "Forgive me. I didn't know. They were just legends..."

Jon's anger bubbled. He already had mixed feelings towards this knight and seeing him threaten Bran, no matter how changed he was, was one step too far in the wrong direction. Bran's gaze was far, far away and it tempered the anger for just a moment and let in a drop of concern.

"Bran, are you all right?" Jon asked, worry twisting his brows.

After visibly assessing Bran and not noticing any marks, the King in the North whirled to face Mormont. He fisted the front of Ser Jorah's shirt and came nose to nose with him. Ghost hung his head beside Jon, a very soft growl rumbling from deep within his broad chest.

"Don't you ever put your hands on any of my family again."

Daenerys swept forward, her skirts whispering against the snow and placed her hand on Jon's. The anger was tempered further, he felt his resolve soften. Ghost stopped growling, but continued baring teeth.

"I will take care of this. You may leave us," Daenerys said, her lips close enough Jon could feel her hot breath on his neck. It reminded him of dark ship cabins and her mouth on his skin but still, Jon did not let him go.

This had been a long time coming.

"Do you understand what I'm saying? Keep your bloody hands to yourself."

" _My queen_ has given you a command, Lord Snow," Ser Jorah reminded Jon in a low voice. His body was tensed, ready to skirmish, his eyes challenging everything about him. Jon's fist raised.

"Jon, please." These were not words that Daenerys said often and, therefore, magic.

Reluctantly, Jon Snow released the knight. The King's eyes were flinty and unflinching, his jaw working hard to keep away the nasty things he wanted to say to his queen's knight.

Jorah was the first to look away towards Daenerys. Her face had become neutral but the corners of her mouth had turned downward. Something about her eyes looked heated.

Jon Snow looked away toward the tree, having forgotten for a few moments about Bran. The boy had disappeared from the clearing.

"Bran?" Jon called. There was no response.

"We shall return to camp and speak there before entering Winterfell," Daenerys said crisply and strode stiffly toward the direction of the remaining party.


End file.
